


gilded, poisoned bones (calling for help)

by tealmoon



Series: Judgment [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underswap (Undertale), Child Death, Heavy Angst, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Mind Control, Multi, Non-Chronological, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ownership, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-06-28 02:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15698007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealmoon/pseuds/tealmoon
Summary: An off-kilter shortcut sends Papyrus into a strange, dark mirror world, and the King who finds him has a very different view of what it means to be the Judge of All Monsters. Trapped and isolated, separated from his brother, violated physically and mentally, he does his best to survive, not knowing what to expect when the monarchy changes hands...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to make things really clear before getting started with this. This is basically an offshoot of “for queen and country,” literally branching off from the first chapter, where I can examine how this Judge concept and its mind control implications would work in Underfell.
> 
> But the thing is that idea comes with a lot of noncon. Yes, QC had some, but this one is pretty centered around noncon and consent issues. It’s not really something where I can give a summary and say ‘avoid these parts.’ It’s saturated throughout the whole fic, as far as I’ve planned it. So if that would be harmful for you to read, please give it a pass.

Papyrus wasn’t as sickly as Sans, but he had his own bad days, and there was only so much a mostly-candy-and-tacos diet, too much sleep, and cigarettes could do for a person’s health. He had been down a few days with some weird spell: coughing, dizziness, not wanting to eat, not being able to sleep. Luckily no vomiting, just nausea, or Sans would have blamed himself for being contagious.

But there were only so many days he could ask his brother to play nurse for him. Puzzles needed calibrating, sentry stations needed watching, older brothers needed to get fresh air and stop fussing. He felt slightly less like shit on the third day and decided it would be fine to tell Sans he felt great, almost on the mend. It’d be fine for Sans to return to work.

It was enough to convince him. Sans still left bowls of soup in the fridge for him to heat up, and scolded him to take things easy, but he headed out into the woods of Snowdin, the lie apparently enough. The short walk from the couch to the kitchen was still making him dizzy, and getting back up to his bedroom drained him 90%, but Sans looked a lot happier. It was worth it. He just had to keep it under wraps until he actually got better.

Maybe the true sign that he was sick was the twinges of restless discomfort. Normally, sitting on the couch with a blanket, watching dumb TV and having low-effort food was the _best._ But the house had gotten stuffy and over-warm, since Sans hadn’t opened any windows since he had gotten sick, worried he might catch a chill. He was getting cabin fever.

Papyrus hadn’t really gotten a chance to go outside much since this bug had set in. Even for the supply trips, which were only a few minutes down the street to the store, Sans had grilled him on what he wanted, the type of soup and what flavor of medicine, and then he had gone himself. No need for Papyrus to move from his blanket nest on the couch.

There was only so much TV he could take, now that the idea had wormed into his head. He hadn’t used much magic over the past few days, just a little blue magic here and there to keep from falling on the stairs or collapsing in the shower the one time he got grossed out by his illness grunge and tried to rinse off. So, even sick, he probably had enough magic reserves for a pair of quick shortcuts. People in Snowdin knew he was under the weather, so if he had the energy to walk there, he’d get caught and marched back home.

It only needed to be five minutes. He could bundle up, sneak out to the Ruins where the sentry route didn’t quite reach, so no one would see him, least of all Sans. He could get some fresh air, talk to Asgore, stretch his legs. Of course the King would let him in and give him tea the moment he realized he was sick. The teabags at the Snowdin store were fine, but not nearly as good as when Asgore made it himself.

Standing up slowly, so he didn’t pitch over and knock himself out on the coffee table or something, he wobbled over to the coat racks and the winter clothes he usually didn’t bother with. Sneakers instead of sandals, one of Sans’s blue scarves. If he was heading immediately into the Ruins and to a chair in front of Asgore’s fireplace, he wouldn’t need a heavier jacket than his orange hoodie. (Hopefully Asgore wouldn’t mind his sickness reek.)

He considered leaving a note, but it probably wouldn’t be necessary. If by some chance Sans came home in those few minutes, he could just text Papyrus, right? And he wouldn’t get caught; Sans rarely skipped out of work early, and not for a brother that was getting better, definitely, right as rain in a day or two. It felt like he was a fifteen year old again, trying to sneak out at night so he could go to the wishing room.

In the few seconds before his shortcut, the world blurred, his vision going shimmery. When he came out the other side, without a proper wall or piece of furniture to lean on, Papyrus tumbled into the snow. Someone had been slacking on shovel duty, because there was snow up to his shins instead of a clear path.

He laid there for a while, willing the vertigo to pass. Had this been a bad idea? On the return trip, he’d have to shortcut directly back to his bed, instead of the living room with all of its hard surfaces to fall and crack his skull on. Slowly, as the dizziness pulled at him, he started to sit up, brushing the snow away. If getting soaked in snow prolonged this bug, either he was going to have to act his nonexistent ass off, or Sans would be worried and upset all over again, if not worse.

It’d be fine, if he could get inside to dry off. A single cup of tea, whatever conversation he could manage while the world was spinning around him, a place to sit. The Ruins door was only a few strides away, but bringing himself up to standing was difficult. For a second, he wondered if he was going to heave, but he managed to take a step, and then another.

He finally reached the door, a gray smear against all the white, and he leaned against the stone to stay upright. It felt colder than usual and he could see his panting breaths. The Underground’s weather was pretty static, since it was magical, but sometimes there were storms in Snowdin, or heavier rains in Waterfall, things like that. He hadn’t kept up with the ‘weather report’ since he had gotten sick.

The door didn’t lurch open like usual. Was it sticking, from the cold? Was it because he had less strength than the usual? He knocked at it, in the hopes that Asgore was in the tunnel and would come to help him out, and then shoved with his shoulder, for all the good it did. The door didn’t budge.

Was it _locked?_

Soon, leaning on the door wasn’t enough, and he sat down in the snow again. All the white was starting to fuck with his vision too, everything going into starbursts. His sweatpants were getting soaked, apparently Asgore wasn’t around to let him in, and he wasn’t sure if he could teleport in this state. If he had believed in his ability to walk without falling, he would’ve gone to the closest sentry station and asked whoever there to help him get home. Sans would surely learn about it and be upset about the obvious lie, but at least he’d be home.

But his legs had given up on him. All he could do was sit and rest, knocking on the door and hoping. Papyrus had really fucked things up, hadn’t he? If he didn’t move his head that much, slowly he started to get equilibrium back, braced by the cold. In a few minutes, he’d see about trying to shortcut back. Tea and a conversation weren’t really worth this mess.

Behind the stone door, faintly, he heard shuffling. Was that Asgore’s robes brushing against the floor? He knocked harder.

“Hello? Is that you, Sans?” What? Rather than Asgore’s deep voice, there was a woman speaking, with a hoarse, quiet voice. Kind of familiar, but hard to hear through the door. He didn’t know the Ruins monsters that well, but he didn’t think any of them sounded like that. Plus it’d be weird for random monsters to walk through Asgore’s house and into his basement. He was a nice guy and all, but that was an invasion of privacy, right? And why was she asking for Sans?

“Uh, nah. This is Papyrus. Sorry, who are you?”

Almost immediately, her voice sharpened. “I sincerely doubt it. Whoever you are, I have no desire to speak with you. I will not permit you into the Ruins, so leave now.” The shuffling noise started again, faster, and he was pretty sure that was her leaving the other side of the door.

“Wait! Please, at least let me in—” She shrieked, and he scrambled away from the door and to the treeline a moment before tiny flames crawled underneath it, the thick stone suddenly scalding. The snow soon extinguished it, but the few moments of worrying he was going to be lit on fire: surprisingly not good for his fragile health. He wheezed for breath, watching the door in case she was about to open it and launch another attack. Had she literally thrown a fucking fireball at the other side?? He didn’t hear anything else from her, and he hoped that meant she was gone, but going into the Ruins clearly was a terrible idea.

So... Asgore had a murderous lady friend? A lady friend who really liked privacy and convinced Asgore to lock the place up when she was around, to keep out unwanted visitors. He didn’t seem like the type, but it was hard to think of another explanation for an unknown monster in the Ruins. She could have been an unexpected intruder, but he would’ve been able to sense if she had hurt Asgore. As far as he could tell, Asgore was fine, which was convenient because he could barely walk, let alone make a daring rescue.

Did Asgore really need a lover if he had Papyrus to use? Was he an idiot for having that be the first thing he thought of? That stung, and he started to get to his feet. Served him right for not calling ahead, not that it had been a problem in the past. The only option was to get back home, one step at a time if he had to, and cope with the consequences. Although the sitting had helped a little, his magic felt wobbly, not stable enough to shortcut.

So he walked. The path between the Ruins and the first station had never felt so long before, but then again, he had to stop every few seconds to lean against trees. The whole time, the wind was picking up, and a light snow drifted down, melting on his shoulders. Had he really chosen a storm day for this stupid outing?

He considered texting Sans, bracing for the disappointed lecture immediately, but he wasn’t getting any reception when he took his phone out. Was the coming storm fucking things up?

And the station didn’t have Sans waiting at it, taking his place. It...didn’t look like Papyrus’s station at all. Had someone been decorating in the few days he’d been off work? Was it some sort of weird prank? But it was out of the cold and the wind, so maybe he could sit down for a few seconds. When whoever was manning it came along, maybe Sans, maybe one of the bunnies, he could fill them in. No one would mind if he put his head down and rested...

*

Papyrus was woken by the sounds of dogs barking, and he jerked up, toppling off the stool and onto the wooden floor. What the hell? One of the dogs from town, yelling because a pine cone had fallen on their head or something? Holding onto the counter, he tried to pull himself.

And came face to face with a dog monster, leaning over the counter and right up into his personal space. He snarled in Papyrus's face, paws coming down to pin his hands where they were clinging to the wood. A dog monster in tarnished armor, with the Delta Rune on the chest.

Were there Guard dog monsters in the Capital? All the dogs around town preferred business over military. But why would Capital Guards come all the way down to Snowdin, when the bunnies could handle it as easily and a hell of a lot more conveniently?

It had to be a dream, Papyrus decided, as a pair of two other dogs moved forward, each wearing a hooded robe. What Guard would manhandle _him_ of all people? One of them pointed at him, saying in gruff but recognizable words, “(Identify yourself!)”

Yeah, he was dreaming. Normal for a skeleton to get nervous around dogs every so often, right? This was just a nightmare. It hurt plenty when the dog holding onto him pulled on his hands, nearly yanking him through the window of the station, but Papyrus had plenty of dreams where he could feel pain. Might as well play along until he woke up.

But before he could say his name, the dog grabbed at his wrist, pushing up at his sleeve. The wrist where his Delta Rune, the mark of his status as the Royal Judge, was plain for them to see, several furry dog heads leaning in close. He was abruptly let go, falling backward into the station as they furiously barked to each other. Why all this fuss about him? From past cases, pretty much all the guards knew who he was. Was this a band of new recruits that hadn’t seen him in the Judgment Hall before?

A hand reached down, and he was pulled up by his hoodie collar, though a little more carefully than before. The dog looked a bit like Dogaressa, the inn keeper in town, now that he was close enough to see past her hood. “(By the will of the King, we will escort you to New Home!)”

The King? What the hell? Despite it being a dream, he still couldn’t walk properly, making it about three steps before he stumbled into the snow, triggering a round of yips and growls from the dogs that surrounded him. They conferred for a second before one of the biggest ones, an enormous white dog with plate armor, scooped him up and tossed him over his shoulder.

Papyrus flailed instinctively, from both of the sudden movement and the cold metal he was being pressed against, but there wasn’t much he could do. This dog seemed a lot stronger than him, and if he squirmed out of this hold somehow, he couldn’t outrun a bunch of dogs. And he was curious about their words. Were they going to take him to some dream Asgore?

(He hoped that someone eventually came around in the waking world to find him, so he wouldn’t freeze in the coming storm. Of course someone would find him, right?)

They were making good time, Papyrus’s weight apparently negligible to this dog as they rushed past gnarled, appropriately nightmarish trees. They moved through the unfamiliar puzzles fast enough that he couldn’t get much of a look at them, only that there were things like spikes and barbed wire and bear traps that they neatly avoided.

All the barking must have driven away the other monsters away, and he didn’t see any Gyftrots or Snowdrakes as they rushed towards Snowdin. Even though it was a dream, he felt awkward over people seeing another monster carrying him over their shoulder. He had Guard escorts back in the earlier years, but this was a bit over the top, right? It was a stupid thing to worry about, but hey, he was having a nightmare. He wasn’t in his right mind.

But Snowdin didn’t look like Snowdin. No lights strung up on the faded sign, no monsters hanging around town, no Gyftmas tree in the center. They didn’t give him much time to look, but he could see that all of the buildings were dark, curtains pulled if the windows weren’t boarded over. There wasn’t anyone outside to see him being carried through the town.

Rather than passing by his house, they went up to the section of riverside where, as if everything was normal, the Riverperson and their boat were waiting. The boat definitely wasn’t big enough for Papyrus and that many dogs, so half of them hung back while the big one lowered him onto the seat. The married dogs and another, unfamiliar dog, climbed in, Dogaressa at his side with a paw on his arm in case he tried to jump into the water or something. She handed over some gold. “(To Hotland and then back here for the others,)” she yipped.

Hotland did make sense, if they were going to New Home. He moved his hands up to take off his scarf—he’d be passing out left and right if he kept it on.

They hadn’t expected the movement. Almost instantly, a pair of axes and a short sword were summoned, all pointed at him. Dogaressa was close enough that her ax was brushing his front, all of them expecting...an attack? He was the _Judge_ , for fuck’s sake, shouldn’t they have expected better from him? They certainly didn’t have the respect of new recruits who would fall all over themselves once they crossed paths with Papyrus, until they realized their Judge was kind of a bum outside of court.

He held up his hands, slowly. “Settle down, guys. Just taking my scarf off. That okay, or do you guys have issues with winter wear?” With two fingers, he plucked at the scarf, and when they only responded with low growls, he eased it off and dumped it into his inventory. “See? Done without any problems.”

“How about you don’t move anymore after this,” Dogamy grumbled, and Papyrus did his best to repress the urge to say that one of them would have to carry him the rest of the way, then.

The walk from the boat to the elevator was pretty brief, the dogs nodding to two towering, black-armored guards as they passed. Other than that, there weren’t any monsters around. Maybe the random barking was some sort of warning system, and they were keeping civilians away, as if Papyrus was a threat.

By the time they reached the elevator in the hotel (which didn’t really look like a hotel at all and didn’t have the constant music he’d come to expect from the nightclub), Papyrus was starting to stagger from the heat. How long was this nightmare going to last? He almost wished he could pass out, so he could end it faster.

They rushed him forward, not letting him get much of a view of this nightmare Capital spread out below the walkway. At a first glance, it seemed fine, if a bit dingy, but looking harder, Papyrus could see graffiti, rundown buildings, broken windows. They pushed him into the elevator rather than walking the whole way.

They did slow their pace a little bit as they led him through the Judgment Hall, past rows of unfamiliar guards standing at attention. He’d spent enough time in there that he could imagine the place perfectly in his head, but...This Judgment Hall, while still familiar, still calling to him, wasn’t the same. The patterns on the tiling were different, the columns spaced a little further apart. The light coming through the barrier didn’t look right.

The dogs shared a glance between them and shooed him onward. Toriel was usually waiting for him whenever she called him to New Home. She was nowhere to be seen, but he supposed dreams were dreams.

Walking into the throne room was like being slapped in the face with a bouquet. Toriel had kept a small flower patch, but it looked more like a meadow in here, waves of golden flowers surrounding a bare patch in the middle. There was a throne there, and a small table in front of it.

Papyrus could hear the dog guards kneeling behind him, but he couldn’t do the same, freezing in place as the Boss Monster stood from the throne. This couldn’t be Asgore, could it? It wasn’t just the armor, the crown that seemed to say that he had pushed Toriel off the throne. (Asgore was too timid and easygoing to do that, right?) His posture was straighter, so though they were probably the same height, he loomed over Papyrus as he walked closer. The real Asgore always slumped so he wouldn’t intimidate the much smaller Ruins monsters.

There were smaller details that Papyrus noticed, when Asgore (?) came to a stop in front of him. His hair looked longer and darker, a dirty blond rather than golden. There were scars visible through his fur, and notches on his horns. “Please, come join me for tea. I’m interested in meeting you.” The voice sounded the same, at least. “Guards, you are dismissed.” There were a few small, confused yips from the dogs, but they cleared out, as did the guards standing behind the throne.

And then they were alone. Asgore led him over to the table, effortlessly managing not to crush any flowers despite his size. Papyrus wasn’t sure he did as well, probably squishing a few on the way, but Asgore didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he pulled out the chair on the other side of the table, waiting until Papyrus was seated before he returned to the throne.

There was a second tea cup set out and, after pressing a paw wreathed in fire magic to the side of the teapot, Asgore poured for him. Apparently he had been expected, for Asgore to have already arranged all this. Without any honey set out, like Asgore normally would have done, he settled for a handful of sugar cubes.

He got a soft laugh at that. “So you prefer sweets, then. I’ll remember that. Now, for the reason of this summoning...” He took a sip of tea, and Papyrus copied him, though he couldn’t recognize the flavor, other than that it was faintly spicy. “Please show me your wrist, if you will.”

Papyrus didn’t see any reason not to, shoving up his sleeve and extending his arm over the table. The dream king took his wrist in a gigantic hand, intently looking at it. “I thought as much,” Asgore said softly. “Claiming the sign of the Crown without properly earning it is a capital offense. But this, no, this isn’t just a tattoo. You are a true Judge, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I—”

“Hush.” Asgore’s grip tightened. “You will not leave here without my explicit verbal permission. You will not harm myself, any Guard, or any other monster who enters this castle. You will not harm yourself. You will be honest with me. You will follow any orders I give you, though I suppose that part is implied, isn’t it?” He let go, and Papyrus drew his arm back, which was tingling and starting to glow from so many orders given at once. What was happening?

“Oh, don’t look so shocked. I’ve had a long time to consider how to handle a Judge since my last one became unusable, and I don’t want to lose you the moment I found you. Now... You _are_ a level one monster, aren’t you? _Be honest_.”

“Y-yeah?”

“I thought so, but of course I wanted to be sure. A Judge really isn’t worth anything if they aren’t, after all. And your name, dear? ‘Judge’ is a bit impersonal for our relationship. You may refer to me as Asgore when we aren’t in formal company, although I would ask you to remember my rank in official situations, if you are included in them.”

“My name is Papyrus?” He couldn’t help how it sounded more like a question, with everything spinning around him. When was he going to finally wake up?

Confusion flickered over Asgore’s face, and he carefully put down his tea cup as he started to chuckle, and then to bellow with laughter. “Goodness, I keep receiving such hilarious Judges. Is it a required character trait? Dear Judge, you cannot possibly be Papyrus. Unfortunate for you to pick a name I already recognize as one of my brightest Guards. He’s quickly rising the ranks, that one, it’s very impressive. Now, please try again.”

“I don’t have another name,” he gritted out. “I’m telling you, I am Papyrus.”

“No, you aren’t.” It was like a steel door slamming shut in his head. _Not Papyrus, not Papyrus...._ “However, I suppose we can survive without a formal name, if you really prefer Judge or a pet-name. You’re clearly telling the truth, as far as you believed it, so don’t fuss so much. It’s a bit rude towards the true Papyrus to steal his name, so keep that in mind.”

Five minutes and this King was already taking him apart. “Did you not enjoy the tea? Please continue drinking, I’m not mad at you about it.” With clattering hands, he reached for the cup, though he couldn’t really taste it now. “A little sensitive, aren’t you? Now, don’t worry, I’m not scolding you for it. If you don’t like the flavor, I’m sure I can find another that will appeal to your tastes more. We’re going to have plenty of time to get to know each other.”

When both of their cups were drained, Asgore didn’t bother pouring more. He stood, and as he watched, shoulders hunched, Asgore started to remove the armor he wore, the cape draped over the top of the throne and his breastplate and bracers left on the seat. “Please come here.”

He couldn’t help his body standing, following Asgore with each command, either gestured or spoken. _Take off your jacket. Lay down. Yes, just like that, very good._ He dropped to the floor when the King demanded it and then laid back, most of his body stretched out on the tile. His head rested on the edge of the grass, a few inches away from a mass of flowers. He wasn’t innocent; he’d had this sort of daydream a million times in the past. In the daydreams, he hadn’t felt like he was going to puke just-swallowed tea into a flower patch.

The King knelt above him, knees planted on either side of his pelvis. “It’s rare to ever find an adult monster as pristine as you,” Asgore breathed. “Not a single scar, even under your clothing. If not for these, I would wonder if you really were a child.” Asgore tapped one of the epiphyseal lines on his arm, and he shivered, wishing he had been wearing something more than a flimsy tank top. “How lovely you look!”

He didn’t have much mental room to protest, but he tried, the moment Asgore reached for his pants. “Wait...” _Wait_ , not _no,_ not _stop I want to wake up now, this has gone too far_.

“Well, if you don’t want me to undress you, then by all means, please do it yourself.” Asgore set back on his heels, giving him room. Was this really any better? His hands didn’t belong to him, his fingers curling around the waistband of his gross, stained sweatpants and tugging them down. Hoping that Asgore would find him ugly or gross for not having showered in days, hoping that something about him was repellent. Hating himself for tugging them down in one movement but not wanting to draw it out.

He was having a dream. He had fallen asleep in a growing storm like an idiot, when he still had a fever and couldn’t walk straight, and this was a nightmare. Soon one of the sentries would find him and make sure he got home, where Sans would lecture and fuss...

Asgore tapped at the swell of his pelvis with one elegant, sharp claw. “I don’t have an excessive amount of experience with skeleton monsters, but I believe you can be more accommodating than this. Please do so.”

He pressed his head to the side, not looking at Asgore as a pussy formed in his pelvis, the King nudging his legs open wider. It was already wet against his will, from those hands on his femurs, that familiar face. He looked at the flowers instead, so close he could see all the little parts of it, blades of grass jutting into his nasal aperture. Now that he was in the thick of it, it smelled really nice, a ladybug crawling up a leaf right next to his skull...

He twitched, legs shaking, and tried to ignore the finger pushing into him, that sharpened nail cutting something inside him. None of this was happening. Asgore had taught him the different parts of flowers, and he strained to remember. If _that_ part was the stamen, then what were those other little bits? It was—

When Asgore pressed into him, he couldn’t help arching up, a gurgle escaping from his mouth. He didn’t really want to look down to see what was happening to his lower half. Who knows, could’ve been a dick, could’ve been a knife considering how it felt. He glanced down, but it had become a blur of white fur and orange magic, so he turned back to the flowers.

Instead of willing the dizziness to go away, he tried to fall into it, to finally pass out and be done with it. The thrusts were starting to get faster, his body scraping across the tile, his head brushing against the flowers. Pollen on his skull. He couldn’t feel his toes.

And then it was over. With a final thrust, the King came unceremoniously, a splattering that made all of the probably-torn bits inside of him burn.

“Did you enjoy that, my Judge?” Asgore was jamming his dick back into his pants, standing up to get what he soon realized was a frilly little paper napkin he must have included with his tea set. He dabbed at the come splattering his pelvis, now completely empty. Like he was being some sort of fucking gentleman or something.

 _Did you enjoy that_? The King had asked him to be honest, so... “Not really, your Majesty.”

Asgore reached forward, running a furred finger across his cheekbone. “We can work on that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm worried about how I'll pull this off, since it might be an ambitious fic, but I hope it works. Next chapter might take a while.  
> (ó﹏ò｡)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: has some mentions of vomiting and general themes of sickness.

He didn’t wake up in Snowdin. He didn’t remember getting up off the floor, so he must have passed out there while Asgore took his seat on the throne and finished another cup of tea. Kind of a shitty thing to do, in retrospect, even if the grass was soft under his head. At some point, Asgore must have picked up him off the floor, because he woke up in a bed. Not his own bed.

In a bed, alone. The room smelled like mildew, like no one had been there in a while, never mind cleaning it up. Well, except for the Boss Monster-sized bed. From how his skull was pressed against the pillow, he could tell the laundry had been washed recently.

It was a room he didn’t recognize, sparse and painted blue. There were a few books still left over on the bookcase, and an empty desk, but not much else to fill the room. It was definitely not home, and a sickly feeling started to settle in his ribs.

He had had false awakenings once or twice before, going through his morning routine in a dream. Was that happening now? Maybe it was a more elaborate wet dream/nightmare combo than usual. Pinching himself did nothing but leave a mark that would probably bruise, and he wasn’t sure how else to wake up. He had hoped it’d make him bolt upright in his own bed, in Snowdin, listening to Sans rushing down the stairs, and now he couldn’t think of anything else to try.

There was the urge to pull the blankets over his head, curl up, and cry until everything went away, but... He really didn’t want to be around a bed right now. Staying here was only putting himself in more danger.

Once he took his first step off the bed, the pain rushed back, gathering in his pelvis and along his spine. He clung to the bed frame, looking down at himself. His sweatpants were on again, though he hadn’t remembered dressing himself, and there were a few horrible, questionable stains near the crotch. His hoodie was folded up on the desk, and when he hobbled over to it, everything inside seemed to have gone untouched: his smokes, his phone with its box inventory, his collection of candy wrappers. Still no signal, but it said that it was mid-afternoon, so he hadn’t slept for that long.

After everything, he expected the door to be locked from the outside. That made sense, didn’t it? After all that, shouldn’t he have been trapped? But it swung open, a little creaky, and he winced, wondering if he was about to be caught. Would he be punished for leaving that room?

(Even then, he noticed that there wasn’t a lock on the inside either. He couldn’t retreat to that room as a last resort if someone was coming after him. There was a faint scuff on the door, like it had been taken out, maybe for his arrival. An extra fuck you; he wouldn’t have been to lock himself away if the King had the key, but no, better to take the whole lock.)

The door opened onto a hallway that should have been familiar. The lack of color on the walls, the carpeting—that was all Toriel’s house, though he had no idea if that room matched one of the doors that had always been locked to him. But this place was a lot bigger than Toriel’s modest home, more like how castles were in fairy tales. The hallway was longer, lined with more doors than normal, and he felt every single extra step in his stinging hips and pelvis.

Still, the exit seemed to be in the same direction. Shuffling forward and wincing each time the floorboards groaned underneath him, he reached the front door at a glacial pace. There weren’t any locks or apparent traps to be seen, so...

He reached out to the doorknob and faltered. He could rest his hand on it, but the second he tried to turn it, to make his fingers tighten, his entire arm went numb. (“ _You will not leave here without my explicit verbal permission._ ”) He tried to shortcut again, hoping it would work now that he had slept a little and regained some magic. Still no dice, both from how sick he still felt and from the full-body paralysis that crept over him the moment the idea occurred to him.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” a voice came from behind him, and he startled, shoulder knocking into the door. Asgore was leaning in the doorway to what he assumed would still be the living room. “I was going to check in on you in a while, anyway.” He grinned at his hand at the door, and it was probably obvious that he had tried and failed to leave. “Please, come sit down, you look faint.”

Pap wobbled over, collapsing onto the armchair that Asgore gestured to. This living room looked about the same, but larger and more lavish. The King stood over him, apparently not bothered by his seat being taken. He pressed a huge, furry hand to his forehead. “You seem a bit feverish. Perhaps today’s....exertions were a bit much, but I was so excited to meet you that I got ahead of myself.” He chuckled. “I’ll call a healer for you in a minute.”

“Why am I here,” Pap croaked out, his voice sounding awful. “What’s going on?”

“Maybe you’re a bit delirious. Wouldn’t you rather we saw the healer first?” Before he could answer, Asgore was already texting someone. He had the feeling it didn’t really matter what he’d rather have, so he stayed quiet, face pressing against the armchair. It wasn’t lumpy enough to pretend it was the couch at home. Just that short walk through Asgore’s home had drained everything he had in him.

Asgore scooped him up a second later, like he didn’t weigh anything at all. To a Boss Monster, he probably didn’t, like a bundle of sticks, or a few wadded up blankets, or a mannequin. He was too dizzy from the movement to make more than a weak struggle, which of course did nothing. Asgore carried him back to the blue room, setting him back on the bed.

On a bed, with this monster in the room... If the world hadn’t been spinning, maybe he could have rolled off the bed, hidden underneath. As if this Asgore couldn’t lift the whole thing off of him, or tell him to come out and he would, ready and waiting.

Asgore didn’t make him take his clothes off or anything, this time. He sat on the edge of the bed, built sturdy enough not to creak under the weight, and he petted Pap’s skull, taking glances at his phone from time to time. (It was amazing he could manage to text with those fingers, but then that had started warping into thoughts of how enormous those fingers were, only one hurt so much—)

“This monster that’s coming, Vega, I think you’ll like him. He’s one of my personal healers, of which I have a few, because I can heal for myself only on a basic level. He’s very trustworthy. Perhaps I should have waited until you were better before the intimacies began, but I’m sure he can fix you right up.” And sure enough, only a few minutes later, he could hear voices outside, and then the front door opening. Asgore got up to lead the monster in.

The healer was a harpy monster with brown and white plumage. He bowed deeply to the King before looking over to Pap. “I assume my patient today will be your guest and not yourself, your Majesty?”

“Correct. I believe he has a fever, but I’m not sure of the full nature of his illness.”

The harpy’s hands were careful despite those talons, as he took his temperature and started doing diagnostic magic, quietly asking about what sorts of symptoms he had. It would have been easier to answer if Asgore wasn’t still in the room, sitting at the desk chair.

“Oh, you have such low HP,” he said, looking at the thermometer. “And you’re overheated for a skeleton, though not dangerously so at the moment.” And louder, probably more to Asgore than to him. “Fluids and rest, for the most part. If it persists after another day, summon me back.” He lowered his hands down on Pap, wreathed in green magic, and he let it wash over him, ignoring the rest of the lecture on what temperature would count as an emergency and how often to check. The green magic unintentionally eased the pain in his pelvis; luckily the healer hadn’t asked him to undress or anything. He didn’t want to know if he was bruising down there.

He was left alone while the healer was escorted out, but the solitude didn’t last long. Soon Asgore was back with a pitcher of water and a damp cloth that he plopped over his eye sockets, effectively blinding him. He hadn’t wrung it out enough, and a trickle of water slid down into his socket. “See, that wasn’t so difficult. You can have a few days of rest before you start work. For now, you can have this room. The former queen, curse her soul, has not used it in decades, so it’s free for your use.”

This universe he had landed in was flipped around. Instead of the Queen reigning while the King disappeared, apparently the King had control while Toriel was gone. Had it been her, at that Ruins door? Had he taken a wobbly shortcut into a mirror world?

“Sleep for a while. I imagine you’re eager to get started, but for now, recover your strength. There’s plenty of time for that later.”

*

the world melts, bones puddling, the insides of his skull boiling out the holes—

someone touches him and he’s blind, but those hands are too solid to be his brother’s, forcing ice shards into his mouth, his teeth ache from it, when he tries to spit them out to scream, someone holds his jaw closed—

tastes like salt like fingers in his mouth like choking on puke too heavy to roll onto his side

all that salt and sick filling up his ribcage and down his spine

skeletons can’t suffocate on their own vomit, but I guess you’ll be the first, huh Papy? Aren’t you so special?

the walls aren’t the right blue

Where is Sans?

*

It felt more like resurfacing than waking up, if he had been dropped into some ocean of sweat but had come across a life raft; he was still being buffeted by waves of sweat, but at least he wasn’t doggy-paddling through it, trying to keep his skull from dipping under.

...Yeah, as far as metaphors went, it was pretty disgusting, but he fit the part. His clothes, which had been grungy already, were plastered to his bones, and without a window in here, he was pretty sure everything reeked, not only him. At least someone had wrestled him out of his hoodie, safely hung up in the open closet so he wouldn’t have soaked through it, like every other piece of fabric in the vicinity. His bones _itched,_ and it felt like he had been gargling sand. Everything above his collarbones throbbed and blurred as he tried to get to an upright position.

The door opened, and he jerked back, clutching the blankets around him like they were a shield. The monster who walked in looked equally as startled, holding a tray to her chest. She had a delta rune embroidered on her shirt pocket, and he wondered what it meant. Did Asgore have housekeeping?

Her shock faded well before his own, and she hurried over, perching on the desk chair that had been dragged over to his bedside. “Seems you’re on the mend, if you can sit up. The healer’s been worried, you know; it felt like we were calling him in hourly.”

He tried to ask her who she was, or how long it had been, or if he was still in backwards nightmare land, but it only came out as a rasp. “Shh, have some water first. We could barely keep enough fluids in you, no wonder you sound so rough.” He didn’t like that wording, but luckily she held out a dripping water glass, complete with a straw she carefully led to his mouth. It tasted like a fucking miracle, and she had to keep scolding him to drink slower so he wouldn’t puke it all over himself. From the way she said it, and the general stench cloud that was clinging to him, he had the feeling it wouldn’t be the first time.

The last few days had been a blur he didn’t want to remember.

His hands felt like they had been weighed down, but he tried to hold the cup himself. He wasn’t sure how long these monsters had been tending him, but he refused to be helpless a minute longer than necessary. She huffed as it sent a splash down his front, but after a few minutes he apparently looked steady enough that she set the tray on his lap, instead of spoon-feeding him from the bowl. “Now, it’s only lukewarm, so if you do spill, it won’t burn you. Only broth until you can prove you can keep it down, and go _slowly_.”

She flitted out the door, saying something about getting him a washcloth so he could clean up, and then he was alone. His fingers trembled around the spoon, but he managed to get a few drops of plain, nearly flavorless broth past his teeth. Swallowing was an equally difficult challenge, but with each spoonful, the dizziness receded.

The door swung open, and he looked up, only to slosh soup onto himself and the sheets. Asgore strode into the room, beaming at the sight of Pap. Had she told the king about his improved condition, or had he guessed it from someone leaving his sickroom in a good mood? Or maybe he had sensed it from the bond between Judge and monarch that may have been growing between them already, crowding out Toriel’s mark.

As the King approached, he hurried to put the bowl on the nightstand before the rest of it ended up on his lap. What little appetite he had was gone now. Was she still coming back, or was Pap alone with him?

“How are you feeling? I’ve been worried.” Asgore put a paw against his forehead. He was getting really tired of that move. If it had been _his_ Asgore, or even Toriel, it would have been cute, but...

His voice was raspy and burned coming out, but staying quiet wasn’t an option. “Things are better. Still a little wobbly, but everything’s not spinning constantly. Not burning up anymore.” As much as he wanted to exaggerate things, to come off as needing another day, only useless truth came out. He didn’t think Asgore had bothered him when he had been that sick, but that immunity was running out.

Asgore leaned in, but apparently regretted it, recoiling. “Well, three days of sweating out a fever and I think you could use a bath. Goodness!” He laughed. “Please, finish up your meal and then we’ll see about hygiene.”

Was he supposed to be happy about that? Yeah, he’d been gross and sweaty in the same bed for days, and he hadn’t changed his clothes. He did have a spare shirt and shorts in his box storage, but it was kind of hard to dress yourself when your bones felt more like noodles. But for the King to be looking at him this closely, talking about a bath... How was _that_ going to go?

Picking up the bowl again sent a wave of nausea through him, but he had been told to eat, so he was going to finish one way or another. Asgore didn’t seem to mind that he was practically taking it a drop at a time, so slow that he imagined that more of the broth had evaporated than been swallowed. Either way, he couldn’t hide behind it for long, and soon Asgore was helping him up out of bed.

Reluctantly, taking slow steps on shaking legs, he followed Asgore down the hall, past the turn he had noticed and not explored yet. The second door opened up to a huge blue and white tiled bathroom. On one hand, a bathroom for a Boss Monster had to be enormous by necessity, but this was bigger than his bedroom at home.

(It was probably better not to think of home at all, wasn’t it, without any clear way to escape and get back? It would only hurt to have those thoughts. He could save that for when he had an escape route.)

The King turned on the water, though it’d take a while for such a huge bathtub to fill, dipping his fingers in to check the temperature. “Nothing too hot, of course, you just recovered from a fever after all.” And then Asgore stood there, looking at him expectantly, and _waited_. He was still a little loopy, but he caught on: Asgore wasn’t going to leave. Asgore was going to stand there and watch him bathe, apparently.

Or more than that. “Go on,” he said, with a dismissive flick of his hand. “The water will get cold at this rate.”

There wasn’t anywhere to hide behind, no fucking _privacy screen_ or anything as he hesitantly pulled off his hoodie. Asgore wrinkled his snout as he reluctantly handed it over. “We can have these cleaned, but wouldn’t you rather have something new? It would be no problem at all to give you a better wardrobe.”

Asgore said that while he was holding his orange hoodie like...like he could envelop his hands in fire and burn that clothing up in a moment, one of the few things he had from home. His favorite hoodie, for fuck’s sake, and everything he had in his storage by extension. “Uh, cleaning’s fine, for now. I don’t need extra clothes.” His tank top was next, and then he was down to those gross sweatpants, uncomfortable with Asgore’s eyes on his bare ribs. Under that gaze, he had to strain to keep his Soul quiet and out of sight.

“Well, you can’t live on a single set of clothing, especially as a person of your status. It would be borderline negligent to not find you something much better.” Asgore was speaking like he would be staying indefinitely, and that thought bounced around his skull as he pulled his sweatpants off, those gross sweatpants with little dried come stains on the inside. The fabric felt glued down in some spots, and he wondered if it had left fibers stuck onto his pelvis. He didn’t want to look.

“You can get rid of those,” he said, shuffling towards the bath in the hopes that the water would conceal his bones a little, hand splayed over his pelvis for all the good it did. Luckily Asgore didn’t stop him from getting in the tub. “I’ve got another pair of shorts in my inventory, so that’s fine.” Better to get rid of them, and pretend his shorts wouldn’t follow the same fate. He wasn’t that attached to those sweatpants anyway.

He hoped that Asgore would immediately leave to go deal with the clothing. And he did, for all of fifteen seconds before he passed them off to someone else right outside the door, apparently one of the staff. He had picked up a bar of soap (did it have gold flakes in it, or was he losing his mind?), when Asgore returned, sitting on the floor beside the bathtub. He couldn’t help flinching against the far wall, little ripples blooming around him. It was a big enough tub that he could get a decent amount of space between them, but it wasn’t enough.

Asgore was only silent for a little while. “You look a bit unsteady still; would you like me to help you wash up? My hands might be a bit large for all those delicate bones, but I would do my best regardless.” He shook his head mutely, but it didn’t make him leave. “Are you sure you don’t want help? For your back, if nothing else.”

“Nah, uh. I’m good, I guess. Don’t worry about it.” For a moment, it seemed like Asgore wasn’t going to pass over the washcloth, like he would insist, but then he handed it over, his fur brushing against Pap’s phalanges for a second too long. The tub was deep enough that he could easily sink down up to his jaw, hoping that obscured most of his bones a little bit. There was no way to subtly get at his pelvis and the holes in his sacrum, so he tried to hurry through it, hoping he was clean enough. (It had been _days,_ but touching himself down there still ached.) Legs, then ribs, then arms while the King watched him and started getting a very obvious hard-on.

“Now that you’re better, I think we can continue the conversation we started a few days ago. I will admit, I did rush in my excitement. Do you understand why you’re here?” His voice was breathy, but otherwise from the waist up it would’ve seemed completely normal. Business up top, party below the belt?

“I’m a Judge,” Papy answered slowly. “And I’m guessing you’re a King without a Judge? And you want me to work for you.” Would it make Asgore angry if he tried to say he was already claimed for? Couldn’t he sense that there was already a bond there?

Had crossing over into this weird nightmare world severed the tie between him and Toriel, leaving him open for any random monarch to grab?

“A bit simplified, but yes. It’s been years since I’ve had a Judge. My last one managed to pollute himself with violence, and since then, without a suitable replacement, I’ve conducted trials by myself.” He couldn’t help the flinch, water splashing around him. That went against all the rules that had been burned into him about his role. The Judge existed to be impartial; it was a misuse of power for the King or Queen to do it. They couldn’t see LV, so they didn’t have the proper information to sentence someone. That was grounds to depose Asgore, wasn’t it?

“But it worries me, taking that position. I know someone of your power can do a far better job, and monsterkind deserves that.” How was this guy honestly looking pensive with a huge boner? The water was getting cold, and he had run out of body parts to wash, but he wasn’t going to get out if it meant moving closer to that.

“However, I do have a more selfish reason for seeking you out. It’s possible that you may not know this, but it has been many years since the Queen has departed and left me, and... And...it does get very quiet here. I do believe I could better be the King that monsterkind deserves, alongside someone who can comprehend the role and burdens of the crown. Someone who will not bring me to harm or betrayal. In this world, who could fulfill that role better than a Judge?”

“So, I’m not just your Judge, but your...companion?” Seemed like a neutered way to say it, but his mind was moving slowly, all the gears jammed up. Better companion than mind-controlled toy, right? Put that way, it didn’t sound scary at all. _Toriel_ had always been lonely herself, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to see that in Asgore. But then, Toriel had never thrown him down and—and—

It was better not to think about it.

“You’re catching on. In addition to your normal duties as Judge, you will provide me with companionship, as you’ve put it. In return, you’ll have your needs met and some of your wants, provided that you earn them. In this world, I don’t think you could find a safer situation. If my guards hadn’t found you and brought you in, who knows what sort of violence could have fallen on you. Perhaps killed for what little EXP you’d have to offer, perhaps kept to be treated far more cruelly than I would. We live in a world that desperately needs the firm hand of a Judge.”

Those grim words did nothing to stop his boner and... then he started _jerking off_. Reached right down into his pants and started going at it while Pap was trying to wash off the grass stains on the backs of his tibiae. Was his speech and a pile of soapy bones that erotic?

It didn’t take him long. With a gasp, he came into his palm, almost surprised to look at the mess on his fur. While he turned his back to wash it away at the sink, Pap fumbled for the towel hanging by the wall. The cascade of water falling off of him couldn’t be disguised, but at least he was semi-covered as he stepped out. He couldn’t fully dry off without flashing Asgore, so he dripped on the bath mat, trying not to flinch when the King turned around again.

He didn’t have any clothing, and his spares were still in his box storage, in his phone in the other room. And he didn’t know if anyone had bothered to empty his pockets, so maybe his phone was being destroyed in the laundry at that very moment. Would he have to walk around in a towel, or would Asgore let him go get dressed? The towel was Asgore-sized, so it covered him down to his shins, but he couldn’t _not_ feel exposed. And cold.

And Asgore was in between him and the door. Not that he could apparently run away, and he wouldn’t have gotten far in a towel, but it was terrifying anyway. All the residual warmth from the bath had vanished, and he was about a minute from rattling when Asgore stepped closer, too close, and... and wiped a stray droplet off his cheek. From his look, he seemed to know how intimidating he was being.

“No need for you to get a chill after when we’ve nursed you back to health. Let’s go get you dried off and dressed, shall we?”

Asgore made him follow him out of the bathroom and down the hall, ignoring the few other monsters walking the halls. He shrunk behind the King as they headed towards his apparent new bedroom, where his cleaned clothes, sans-sweatpants, were waiting on the desk. (Along with a neat separate pile of his belongings, and he sighed in relief.) He tried to dress himself as quickly as possible under Asgore’s attention, pulling his hoodie down over his pelvis as he retrieved his shorts from the box storage.

“We’ll see what we can do for getting you more clothing, though it may not be to your tastes.” Looking back on it, though he hadn’t run into that many people, the few he had seen were all dressed in black and red. Asgore had gold in his ceremonial armor and robe, but even he was constrained to that color scheme. Pap must have stuck out like a sore, neon thumb. Maybe that’s why the dogs spotted him so quickly.

“Now...” Asgore sat down on the bed and gestured for him to do the same. That sent a sick pang through him, and he crawled up close to the headboard, trying to leave space between them. In the time that he had been in the bath, someone had made up the bed with clean new blankets and sheets. No dried sweat to lay in if Asgore shoved him down—

“Now that you’re feeling better, we can get you started with work. A few minor cases came in during your convalescence, and that should be an easy start.” Asgore reached out to put a hand on his knee, every bit a warm paternal presence, and Pap flinched so hard that all of him clattered.

The Asgore he knew would have apologized himself breathless at that. He had always worried about crowding people, taking up too much room. Frightening smaller monsters.

The King leaned forward. It took him barely any effort at all to push Pap back into the pillows covering the headboard, holding himself up on his arms so his full weight wasn’t grinding Pap’s bones into powder. “I want you to be used to my touch,” Asgore said, before he dipped his head down.

A Boss Monster’s snout and a skeleton’s teeth didn’t really fit together, but that didn’t deter him. He froze, teeth barely parted, and Asgore reached back, forcing one of his fingers into the gap of his jaw and pulling it open. His thick tongue pushed in, exploring the contours of Pap’s mouth. Was that really enjoyable?

This was his first kiss, he realized. He never really had the chance to try as a little kid, not when everyone at school thought he was too weird to touch. His first kiss, his virginity—how many firsts was Asgore going to claim?

“You’re acting like a statue,” Asgore said when he drew back, his voice breathy. “Try to participate more.” The only obvious way to get involved would be to get his own tongue into the mix. He couldn’t _bite_ the King, not when that would count under “you will not harm Asgore,” and that was the only other kissing-based trick a skeleton had. It wasn’t hard to make a tongue, since he used it all the time to make food taste more strongly, but he had never done anything like this, outside of his dreams.

He tasted like sugar cubes and cake as he drew Pap’s tongue into his own mouth and bit down, swallowing up his soft, pained noises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly after that first chapter, I went into hyper-paranoid mode and am convinced everyone will hate me for this chapter being mediocre. Kind of fragile over this whole project.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a violent chapter. See the endnotes for spoiler warnings.

Now that he wasn’t sick anymore, Asgore had given him permission to explore the castle if he wanted to. Of course, that came with a heavy repeated order that he wasn’t allowed to leave without the King’s approval. And... Asgore showed no signs of giving approval, not yet. He could barely lean out a window to smoke before his body turned to stone, refusing to let him go any farther. For some reason, he felt more trapped when he could wander the castle than he had been when confined to a single room.

Unlike Toriel’s place, he never saw monsters wandering through for a casual chat with the royalty. If unfamiliar monsters showed up, it was through a side door with a Royal Guard escort, usually in restraints. For the most part, the only people aside from him and Asgore were staff: not just the guards, but people to clean, deliver messages or packages, and cook whenever Asgore didn’t feel like it.

None of them talked to him, maybe because they weren’t allowed to, but he got a lot of deep bows and curtsies whenever he crossed their paths. Apparently they knew who he was, and who he was meant someone to bow to but never interact with otherwise. They all left in the late evening, probably living nearby in the Capital, which gave him the uncomfortable feeling of wondering what could happen from being alone in the castle with Asgore all night. Asgore hadn’t done much lately, aside from uncomfortable goodnight kisses and gropes, but something more could happen at anytime without those witnesses around.

“Feel free to ask them for whatever you need, provided that it does not go against a previous stated order. It’s part of their job, after all,” Asgore had said breezily. One of them, a monster made of interlocking geometric shapes, was measuring him for clothing. He wished the King wasn’t watching while he stood around in his underwear, but he didn’t bother asking, when the answer would only be no. “Now, what do you want in your new wardrobe, now that you’ve had time to think about it? I’m not going to let you run around in the same grubby things day after day.”

It felt so weird, this charade of ‘you can have anything you want except freedom.’ Like he was handing over bits of his soul for a shirt or a sandwich or whatever Asgore wanted to give him. But it was better to be given clothes than for Asgore to demand that he walk around naked or something.

(But, then again, would the king really want to share his new toy’s body with a bunch of hired staff that didn’t even have nametags?)

“Might be hard to find around here, but...” He gestured towards his hoodie, laying on the bed; he wanted more than anything to snatch it up and cover himself. “Anything in orange would be good for me; it’s kinda my color. Black’s fine for shirts, no preference about bottoms. And... maybe shirts that cover a little more than mine? The castle gets drafty.” If he worded his new disinterest in tank tops like that, instead of ‘dear Angel, please stop looking at my collarbones,’ then maybe Asgore would agree to it.

And he actually did. “In that case, why not pants instead of shorts as well? We don’t want you to catch a chill,” Asgore suggested. That could have been honest concern, or maybe Asgore didn’t want people staring at his legs.

“Orange dye is difficult to find,” the monster said quietly, starting to measure his ribs. He noticed that they were being careful to touch him as little as possible while they did it. “Very few people make it, so red or black will be more feasible.” Well, then, he’d have to be careful with his hoodie, without anything to replace it. Once the measurements were done, Asgore began to escort the monster out, and he could hear him talking through the shut door. He caught a few words: “—a professional, modest sort of look, in black and red with gold accents, of course,” and he had the feeling that his requests were being overridden by Asgore’s.

It seemed to take barely any time at all for the new clothes to arrive but no one was going to make the King of All Monsters wait. Someone, or multiple someones, must have worked tirelessly to prepare and send that much clothing—it was almost as much as Pap’s whole wardrobe back home, since he used to wear the same shirt and shorts combo for days on end. Apparently he didn’t have to do that anymore.

With Asgore watching, he opened the packages to find black and black and black. There were a few red shirts, apparently for color, but no one had found anything orange for him. Piles of black shirts and pants, and he clutched at a shirt and tried not to let out a few pathetic tears about how he was being bullied into turning goth. He could’ve cried about being a prisoner or a fucktoy, with his mind in chains, but no, he was losing his shit about fashion.

He had expected a regular jacket, if not a hoodie, but at the very bottom, there was the fanciest black coat he had ever seen—fancy gleaming buttons, and cuffs embroidered in gold thread, made of wool or something like it. “I thought you needed something a bit more formal for work,” Asgore said, and he tried to imagine himself wearing something so fancy. And it was objectively nice, but he wanted nothing more than to huddle in his hoodie and hope Asgore went away. This wasn’t enough to buy him.

“How do you like them? Go on, try them on. We need to make sure they fit.”

Maybe it was a stupid thing to get upset about, to realize you couldn’t choose your own clothes, but the clothes weren’t really the point. He didn’t have much from home other than the clothes on his back, so having them replaced... It was like he was being remade for this world. Hopefully keeping his original clothing in his inventory, when he wasn’t wearing it, would be enough to keep it from being “accidentally” thrown away.

With Asgore watching, he worked his way through the pile of clothing, keeping very still when Asgore circled around him, hands straightening a collar or smoothing a sleeve, telling him that he looked beautiful in black and red. Everything fit perfectly.

*

“Now, don’t worry. I’ve chosen a very easy case for your first, and if you have any difficulty in the future, I do have plenty of experience myself, so I should be able to help. We can work on you choosing sentences later, but for now, all you need to do is tell me the criminal’s LV.” The condescension was bad enough, but he felt close to puking when Asgore literally winked. Winked and admitted that he had shit on the entire judicial system.

But if he was here, at least for a little while, he could put that system back in order. Maybe fate had dragged him here for that reason?

He stood at the center of the Judgment Hall, Asgore’s furry paw pressing down on his shoulder. At his suggestion (insistence), Pap had changed into some of his new clothes, looking a bit more professional and, more importantly, fitting the color scheme. Not that it helped much. He might not have stood out fashion-wise, but he was sure he looked soft and strange, surrounded by Guards, dwarfed by Asgore. It was hard not to fidget with his sleeves, mapping out their unfamiliar textures with his fingers.

“Elias Gehyra, citizen of Hotland. Accused of four counts of theft, two of assaulting a Royal Guard, and one of resisting arrest.” The monster, a pink gecko, had cuffs on both his hands and feet, one cheek bruised and dusty. His tail looked broken at the end.

This trial wasn’t going right, to the point that he could barely call it that. Where were the witnesses and the security footage? How did he plead? No one had said _what_ the guy had stolen, which tended to be an important part of theft cases back home: if it was money or food or something like that, part of rehabilitating them was getting them out of the situation where they needed to steal.

Apparently they didn’t care about any of that here. He waited, in case it was a dramatic pause deal before they got into all the important missing details, but that only made Asgore cough subtly. “His LV, dear,” he murmured to Pap.

He stepped forward, outwardly to get a better look, but mostly to brush away the hand on his shoulder, the warning prick of Asgore’s claws pressing in without cutting his new coat. Stepping into this world hadn’t changed the familiar thrum in his magic, and he settled into the feeling of cold truth.

“His LV... it’s...” A stab of fear tore through his Judge’s calm. “LV 5, your Majesty.” He had to be a veteran, right? Monsters didn’t have five Levels of Violence unless they had gotten it in the war. They weren’t dragging a literal murderer in front of him and claiming that his crime was _theft_. That couldn’t be right.

“Mm, a bit low,” Asgore said, and the tiled floor spun underneath him. How was that low? “No matter. Captain, one of your newer recruits, if you will.”

The apparent Captain of the Royal Guard, whose bright eyes had been watching him through their helmet visor, turned to survey the others. They scanned the lines of guards and finally waved one out.

He understood a minute too late, as the guard’s mace slammed into the captive monster’s stomach. Pap stumbled forward, a scream ricocheting around in his skull and bones erupting at his feet. Executions weren’t like this. Yes, they happened, on the rare chance that a monster couldn’t be saved, but it wasn’t a hopeless beatdown with dozens of spectators, all of them ravenous for dust. This was a level of cruelty he couldn’t stand and watch. Wasn’t the whole point of his existence to prevent things like this?

He didn’t want to attack, only to restrain the guards until he could think of a better move. Bones burst out underneath them, growing into tall cages surrounding the two closest guards. The others eyed him with confusion but didn’t step forward. Apparently they had orders not to attack him, so he wouldn’t have to divvy up his magic between two dozen monsters. He reached out to Elias—

“ _Enough!”_ Asgore’s voice roared out behind him, and Pap’s bones shattered around him. In his rush, he had forgotten the king. “Stand down immediately!” The order couldn’t have been for anyone else, his voice tearing through Pap, feeling like it would scatter him apart. He stopped so quickly that he fell to his knees.

Asgore’s heavy steps shook the floor, and he ducked his head, staring down into the tile, like it wouldn’t be real if he didn’t look. He didn’t want to think about the tiny second of hope that had flickered in that monster’s eyes, thinking that he could be saved. “Finish carrying out the prisoner’s sentence.” Glancing towards Pap, the guard stepped forward, brandishing his mace. The final attack landed, reducing the monster to nothing but a dust cloud.

It was instinct to check the LV of the guard who had murdered him. Six Levels of Violence slammed into him like he had swung that mace into Pap’s skull, and soon he was looking from one guard to the next—six, nine, eleven Levels of Violence? Everyone that surrounded him, all terrified at Asgore’s approach behind him, had killed on a scale that his mind could barely process.

The King paced around his crumbled form, finally coming to loom in front of him. The King, beautiful and cruel and enraged, carried twenty Levels of Violence underneath his fur. How many people had he killed? How many _monsters_?

“It seems that our new Judge needs more practice in fulfilling his duties,” Asgore said, seemingly for the benefit of everyone still watching. “An incident like this will not happen again, I assure you. With that, this trial is concluded. Please gather the remains and have them sent back to the family.”

And, in a quieter voice, to Pap himself: “Stand and follow me, or I will _drag_ you out.” As if there was a choice. He wanted to stay there, where it was bright and full of witnesses, as unhelpful as they might be, but his body disagreed. His legs were numb, but he managed to rise and stumble behind Asgore, who swept out of the hall and back into the castle. The moment that there weren’t any guards to watch, Asgore grabbed his wrist and began to pull him along, as if he wanted to use force no matter how obedient Pap was being now.

The housekeeping monsters must have heard Asgore storming through and safely got out of the way, but he wished at least one person was there, someone carrying laundry or a grocery order. Someone to keep him from being alone with Asgore. But, then again, Pap wasn’t the one paying their salaries. He couldn’t ask them to fight for him against someone who had killed so many people, not if it would only end with their dust on Asgore’s hands.

If someone could earn more than 20 LV, he didn’t want to be the cause.

Asgore dragged him to the room that was now his, though he hated that he thought about it that way, like it was permanent. He flung the door open with enough force that the doorknob dented the wall, but he dragged Pap in before he could look for more than a few seconds. (Would his bones crumple that easily?)

Asgore flung him down onto the bed, already caging him in with his body, breath hot against his face. Were all of his punishments going to be on this bed? For a moment, he was completely silent, looking over Pap like he was deciding on what to do to him.

And then he reached those huge, clawed hands down and literally tore off the expensive coat that he had given Pap barely a week ago, like he had decided Pap wasn’t worthy to wear a judge’s clothes. By the time he pulled it off Pap’s body and tossed it to the floor, it was shredded, both sleeves hanging from threads. He could feel its defense boost vanishing, and with it, his chances of making it through this plummeted. Whether Asgore planned to beat him or rape him, either way didn’t look good for him.

He stopped at the jacket instead of tearing the rest off, glaring down at Pap. “You of all people should know not to interfere with sentencing,” Asgore snarled. “Clearly you aren’t taking your position seriously.”

“I wasn’t—” He didn’t really know where he was going with that; maybe to argue that he was trying to uphold the justice he had been taught, or that he disagreed with the sentence, or that he didn’t mean to make Asgore mad, honestly he didn’t, but he couldn’t get more than those two words out before Asgore slapped him. It was much weaker than he knew the King was capable of, but it still jolted his head to one side. A few of his teeth felt loose, and luckily he didn’t have enough focus for a tongue—he was pretty sure they’d fall out if he prodded too much.

“Be _quiet_! I’m not interested in excuses. You and I need to show a unified front to the Underground; they need the throne to be strong. I can’t have you defiling Judgment by jumping to the defense of every useless criminal you see.”

And so he went silent, because he didn’t have a choice. No words, breaths taken as shallowly as possible so Asgore would hear them, trying not to shift against the bed in case the shuffling of the blankets underneath him was loud. It was almost a relief not having to think of a way to talk himself out of this. There wasn’t anything he could do but survive Asgore’s anger.

“If you had let that criminal escape, who knows what sort of chain reaction could occur? How many monsters would fall down in the fear that we and the Royal Guard could not protect them? You and I are the last defense against the Underground falling into despair.” His hands clamped down on Pap’s wrists until he could hear them pop and splinter, until he was sure that both of his hands would break off, fingers rolling off the bedspread—

And they did. He didn’t have the voice to scream, and with Asgore pinning him down, he couldn’t kick his way out, and his arms, he couldn’t move his fucking arms, where were his _hands_ —

One of his fingers rolled off the bed and fell to the floor with a faint clatter.

Asgore’s fists closed on air, and after a moment of shocked silence, he surged forward, reaching for Pap’s arms. He seemed ready to hold him down, but something he saw was enough to stop him. Maybe it was because he would have broken those off too, Pap thought, in a haze of pain. “Don’t move, you’ll harm yourself further,” the King snapped, in growing panic, and instantly his agonized squirming went still. He could barely tip his head up enough to see the segments of his fingers scattering away from his carpals, the magic that normally kept them together gone. They started to dust.

The King almost looked... terrified? With all the checks he had done on Pap, it shouldn’t have been shocking to realize that he was this fragile. His Judge was about as sturdy as cotton candy, and it was amazing it had taken this long for the worst to happen.

Asgore was off the bed and on his phone in moments, calling the healer by the sound of it, but it was hard to focus on the words over the heat spreading up his arms. Over Asgore’s voice, which had grown to a shout within seconds, he could hear a soft sound like sand being poured out onto the bed.

The King had done more damage than either of them had realized, and his wrists were disintegrating too. Not just his wrists—as he lay frozen, his arms began to look more gray than white, the bone soft and fragile against the blankets. Soon a wave of dust was passing up his radius and ulna. If he had looked inward, he was pretty sure he’d be sitting at a big fat zero HP, but checking was too much effort; he’d know in a few minutes whether he had been right.

There was a weird sense of relief when the Delta Rune on his wrist vanished into dust. It was mostly a symbol of his bond with the throne, and removing it wouldn’t budge the ties underneath, but having it off his body was like a chain being cut off. Would the rest of those chains would fall away in a few minutes?

Asgore’s phone cracked against the floor, forgotten as he lunged at Pap. He grabbed at one arm to examine it, only to recoil when that small bit of jostling sent the wave of dust moving faster, until he couldn’t feel anything below that shoulder. In only a few seconds, he was sure the other arm would catch up, and soon he wouldn’t feel anything at all. Vega wouldn’t be able to get there on time, even if he had been waiting outside the castle door when he had gotten Asgore’s call.

At least he wasn’t dying with the King’s cock jammed in him. When he thought of it like that, dusting sounded pretty nice. It wasn’t the escape he had hoped for, but it would still get him out of this nightmare world.

Until Asgore tore at his shirt, literally tore through with claws out, and reached for his soul.

He wanted to thrash, to hurry it up so that he’d be powder before Asgore had time to do anything, but the order held, and he couldn’t move to protect or end himself. Anything aside from hyperventilating was out of his reach. And he _was_ hyperventilating, trying to drag in unnecessary breaths to stay calm as Asgore pulled his soul out of his ribcage, carelessly nicking a few ribs with his claws in his rush. His normally orange soul was going gray, all the pigment leeched out of the edges and faded closer to the center. If that wasn’t enough proof that he was dying, he didn’t know what was.

It seemed to take a huge effort for Asgore to pull his own soul from his chest—it was harder for fleshier monsters, too many barriers in between a soul and air—and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why Asgore was doing it. The room was flickering around him when Asgore brought his hands together, bringing the shriveled dying soul close to his own.

And the world sharpened into focus so quickly that it was agonizing, light and color and _pain_ all becoming too bright to think through _._ He was pushing their souls together like he was trying to shove Pap’s inside of his own and consume it completely. He had taken everything else, why not his soul too? One last bit of torture.

Yellow threads squirmed out of Asgore’s core and pushing into his, and somehow that hurt more than everything else piled together. His soul burned where it had sunk into Asgore’s, practically fused together. The bones he still had left had gone soft and chalky, ready to fall apart, but under Asgore’s will, he could feel them hardening again, resisting the wave of dust. There wasn’t anything he could do to stop himself from being “saved.”

“Your Majesty—” He couldn’t turn his head to look at the door, but that voice, out of breath and terrified, could only be Vega. He practically sprinted over, collapsing beside the bed on his knees, hands already outstretched and wreathed in green magic.

“Is he stable?” Asgore asked, his voice tight, souls dripping all over his hands. “I took it on myself to steady his soul with my own, but...”

Vega stared at the joining of their souls, and maybe Pap was projecting in his delirium, but the healer looked disgusted for the few seconds before his bedside manner kicked in.

“Yes, Your Majesty. The dusting isn’t progressing, and his HP is holding. More than holding—I’m not sure if it’s a permanent increase, but you seem to have given him some of your HP. He’s now at 10.” (He didn’t want to think about the harm Asgore could do to him with that.) “Skeletons do have some regenerative properties, from what little I know of them, but... the damage is severe.” And it was the first time he’d ever heard the healer sound scared. To serve the King, he’d have to be one of the best, probably experienced with all sorts of medical horrors, so for him to be intimidated by this amount of damage... It didn’t bode well.

“Please, speed up his healing as quickly as you can,” Asgore said, finally peeling their souls apart. He wished he had his voice to beg Asgore not to put it back, a heavy and wet mess in his ribcage that sharpened the pain. He sat down on the edge of the bed, not bothered by all the dust Pap had left.

Why did he care whether his Judge had arms? For what he had used Pap for so far, he didn’t need his hands at all—he could still be fucked or give judgment without them. There was no reason for Asgore to _demand_ he reform both arms from the elbow down, as fast as he could manage. Well, aside from keeping up appearances to the rest of monsterkind, or at least the few people permitted to see him, but he had a feeling that monsters in this world wouldn’t be that fazed by it.

His humeri were still hanging on, but they were more gray than white, and one of them had a chunk dusted off from where Asgore had jostled him, so the healer focused his green magic there. “Your Majesty, it would be easier for him if he got some rest first? Using that much magic right after an injury is—”

“ _Now,_ Royal Healer Vega. I will not have my Judge incapacitated for a moment longer than necessary. Begin.”

Aside from a faint ruffling of his feathers, he gave away no signs of his disapproval. Now ignoring the King, who had gotten up to pace on the other side of the room but still seemed to loom over them, he turned to Pap. “Have you ever reformed a body part before?” When he shook his head, Vega winced. “I’ve never specifically helped a skeleton with this sort of injury, but I have seen it in Icecaps before. You need to visualize the lost body parts while extending out magic that will act as a sort of scaffolding. With enough focus, the magic should convert to bone. The majority of the effort depends on you, but I can keep the pain at bay and make sure your new bones form without any cracks.”

‘Keep the pain at bay,’ not ‘prevent pain entirely,’ he learned almost immediately. He had to strain to summon more than wisps of magic, let alone making it form the right shapes and hover in place out of the stumps of his arms. It stayed stubbornly orange, refusing to solidify.

“It might help if you closed your eyes, or—or the skeleton equivalent, anyway. Visualizing your bones would be easier without extra distractions.” That sounded reasonable, but not with Asgore prowling around the edge of the room. Maybe he would have felt calmer not looking at the King’s anger and worry, but wouldn’t it be worse, not knowing where he was?

It wasn’t like making attack bones and then slapping them on; they had to integrate with the rest of his bones, if he ever wanted to _use_ them. It would be even harder to make all of the tiny individual bones that made up his hands, so that the phalanges of each finger fit properly and moved together. Shaping the tops of his radius and ulna was hard enough, and there were barely any moving parts there. The magical effort left him soaked with sweat, keeping his groans behind clenched teeth until Asgore remembered that he had ordered him mute and grudgingly gave back his voice. Not that being allowed to make noise eased the pain at all, but he wasn’t complaining.

He had lost the arms that had hugged his brother, he realized. Of all the things from home that could be taken away, he hadn’t included his own body in the list. Would Asgore hurt him again, until every part of his body would eventually belong to this world? Was it possible to do that without killing him? The thought was terrifying enough that his magic flickered and went out, unable to keep rebuilding himself.

Vega seemed to take it as exhaustion. “Your Majesty, it might help his efforts if he had something to eat? Anything with a lot of calcium would help bone formation. Nothing too heavy, considering his condition, but even some water would be helpful.”

He huffed. “If it will speed up this process, then I suppose.” As if it was some big burden to put on him.

Asgore seemed hesitant to leave the room, but the castle was still empty aside from them, with no one around to fetch things, so the King swept out of the room. (It was almost lucky—he wasn’t sure he wanted those people hearing more of his whimpering than they already had.) He didn’t think he _could_ eat anything, but the reprieve seemed worth it on its own.

His eyes darted to the door, seeming to count out a few seconds before he looked down at Pap, that professional expression crumpling. “He did this to you, didn’t he?”

Did he know about the bruises Asgore had left the first time around? Maybe Vega had been able to sense them during that first healing, or he had been around to see someone undress him during that fever. Either way, he could probably guess what had happened. If it had been anyone else at fault, Asgore would have been halfway through executing them for it.

He nodded, hesitantly. Who knew how long it would be before Asgore returned? It wouldn’t end well for either of them if they were caught having this conversation, however one-sided.

“I supposed so—no one else would dare, had they known who you are.” He sighed, dropping his hands and letting the green fade out. “There’s not much I can do, but here. I’ll write down my cell number for you, so you don’t have to rely on Asgore to call me, if... if you get hurt. I’m basically your personal physician, by this point.”

He was right, it wasn’t anything at all. It wouldn’t stop Asgore from doing any of this again, but he stayed still and let him slip a tiny slip of paper in his pants pocket. That was all the fucking charity he was going to get. Plus he had no idea if Asgore would allow Pap to go behind his back to get healing, and if it was a situation as bad as this, how was he supposed to call when he was actively dying?

He should have been grateful; this was probably all Vega had to offer. What was he going to do, whisk away this handless skeleton and help him live happily ever after, somehow freeing him and sending him back home? In the long run, there was nothing else this monster could do for him or _would_ do.

He probably should have thanked him, but it was better to save his voice for groaning as the orange spread further, centimeters of bone forming out of it. Only a few minutes later, Asgore was back, tray in hand.

He couldn’t think of a time where he had wanted to eat less than now. His arms were still half-nubs, his radius and ulna progressing but not useful, and fingers seemed like a far off pipe dream, so he couldn’t stop Asgore. He was pretty sure he would puke from the pain, but Asgore held a glass of milk to his teeth anyway. The calcium-heavy choice, obviously. There was soup and cheese too, but he had doubts that he could concentrate on chewing and reforming entire limbs at the same time.

Or swallowing, for that matter, as milk trickled down his jaw. It felt like he had gotten more soaked into his shirt than into his mouth, but Asgore kept at it grimly. And he hated to admit it, but by the time half of the glass was gone, the regeneration of his arms seemed to be going a tiny bit faster.

It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler summary: In a fit of rage after Pap messes up a trial, Asgore accidentally breaks Pap's hands off, and the damage nearly kills him. He manages to save Pap by sharing some of his HP through forced soul contact, but his arms dust off. It's not a permanent condition, because skeletons can reform bones, but he does get super close to dying for a few minutes and in the moment he was okay with dying if it got him away from Asgore.
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> (｡・//ε//・｡) Writing has been slow lately and probably will keep on being slow, unfortunately. For some reason I got really into Castlevania in the past month-ish so my focus for anything else is shot. I hope this is okay?


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